


The Fall

by LadyTroll



Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [1]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band), Original Work
Genre: Canon Atypical Violence, Dark Fantasy, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Roleswap, Unicorns, Violence, You Have Been Warned, at least I think so, dark Angus McFife, good Zargothrax, like a really REALLY dark Angus McFife, reverse gloryhammer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:53:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTroll/pseuds/LadyTroll
Summary: It is a lovely evening in Auchtermuchty, and the Prince of Fife is a terrible sh-
Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540978
Comments: 12
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Scourge of Auchtermuchty: A Tale from the Kingdom of Fife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21429538) by [SmolSilverFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmolSilverFox/pseuds/SmolSilverFox). 
  * Inspired by [Gloryhammer reverse!AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/534889) by foxwinterart on tumblr. 

> Where evil wizards are good, and the heroes are the ones you should keep your distance from.
> 
> ***
> 
> Obviously, this is about the characters, NOT the band itself. 

Perhaps the most peculiar thing about magic is that it gives its users access to an enormous pool of power, regardless of whether they are a magical or a non-magical wizard. It has the ability to shape the world in any way the practitioners wish to see it, were it not hidden behind locked doors and ancient rules penned down on dusty scrolls in just as ancient and dusty vaults. One wizard could, on occasion, be enough to win – or, depending entirely on which side you have chosen, lose a war. Some have even mastered the death itself and are able to tear beings from its grasp long after it has already claimed their souls. And, while those creatures are empty husks of what they used to be, now at their new master’s disposal, it is said that magic, indeed can, under certain circumstances, of course, even grant you true eternal life and immortality.

Perhaps that is what the Crown Prince of Fife was looking for when knocking down the gates to an ancient city belonging to the practitioners of magic and completed with its own Academy schooling young wizards of all circles. Or, perhaps, like all great tyrants of their age, he was merely after more people to kneel before him. Or maybe he saw another purpose for himself and would not have anybody standing in his path to achieving it.

Whatever the reason was, it did not justify the measures taken to achieve his goals.

***

In itself, the room where the wizard’s study had been set up would have been large enough to accommodate half of a class of the first year, had it not been stacked full of bookshelves, each bending under the weight of tomes stored there, and chests and crates piled on top of each other that contained, among numerous other things: parchments, paper, papyrus scrolls and fabrics, as well as all sorts of writing utensils and tools for alchemy, starting with boxes of empty bottles and ending with cans of ingredients of suspicious origins. Some of the shelves and chests were covered in dusty sheets, looking like solemn ghosts in the late afternoon light. Among this all, the unknown expert of interior design responsible for these compact arrangements had miraculously found a place for two tables across from each other and even squeezed in a couple of chairs and a cosy-looking, albeit old sofa, while keeping in mind to leave a narrow path around the room that followed from the door to the window, then back to the fireplace and to the door again. The small window was not enough to light up the room and served mostly as a vantage point to spy on uninvited guests who might come banging on the door. Tasked with providing light during the day was the large window in the roof of the house that was big enough for the royal portrait artist’s workshop to envy. The dusty glass let copious amounts of light into the study that, on its turn, illuminated the dust particles floating through air, lending the room a mysterious golden aura one expected to see in a house, inhabited by a wizard. The air here smelled of ink, burning wood, dry herbs and the nondescript essence that hovers in air on warm afternoons.

Outside the large window, there was only the sky. Outside the large window, stars at night glittered like diamonds an unknown entity had stitched onto a fabric of the deepest void. Outside the large window, wind drove clouds across blue sky during the day, and sometimes they huddled together, and then rain poured onto the glass, run down the tiled roof and into the drainage and clunked down the pipes and into the streets.

Outside the small window, streets run up towards the centre of the city and the Magistrate, the Library and the Academy that towered proudly over Auchtermuchty, visible already from far away and causing not just one traveller who had not even planned to visit to at least stop and stare for a while. Outside the small window, old buildings both of stone and wood were neatly lined up along the streets, and people sat on their front porches, enjoying the evening. Outside the small window, there were the scents of moss, fish, wet stone, bread, wooden shavings, late flowers, wooden smoke and just a slight tint of the eternally blooming roses in the courtyard of the Academy that hung in the air at all times. Outside the small window, there were rooftops dressed in colourful tiles, and the sound of horseshoes on the cobbled streets, and pigeons cooing on the roofs, and people laughing as they discussed the latest news, and there were vendors wandering the streets and praising their wares, and somewhere in the city a small explosion echoed and a young alchemist run from their laboratory, accompanied by green smoke seeping through the door and the windows, as they were cussed out by their teacher for such ridiculous beginner mistake.

Inside the study, an old man rose from chair behind his table and began pacing, his gait slow and pained as he leant onto a long-suffering wizard’s staff, his speech just as slow but surprisingly coherent, considering his age:

\- McFifes have been the protectors of this land for a long time. Time and again, they have beaten back the intruders from North and South alike, just like they have made allies there, and have therefore rightfully worn the titles of Kings and Queens of Fife. But their perhaps most important task has been guarding an ancient artefact hailing from times so old there are no written documents on them. The Hammer of Glory, they say, was wielded by the heroes of an age long forgotten, and it is as precious as it is dangerous. For you see, my student, only the ones with iron will and a pure heart can become its masters. The weak-willed, faint of soul, the hammer will enslave.

\- How does it work?

The old man cast a look at his apprentice, only to be met by the sight of unruly dark hair while the young sorcerer in question was busy scribbling something on a paper hastily, his round face tense as he focused on the task at hand. The sleeves of his dark robe had been pushed up to the elbows, and one of them – along with the hand it was normally supposed to cover – sported an ink spot from just this morning. A pair of spectacles – an overall irreplaceable article among any wizard’s gear, even if they were normally not as extravagant as these – had been pushed as far away from the writing tools as it was possible without dropping them on the floor. At his feet, shoved under the chair, there lay a leather shoulder bag that served as a portable storage for ingredients of alchemic concoctions and random scrolls with whatever spells its owner was going through at the moment. 

The old man recalled that one time when the student had attempted to craft a spell to make the previous bag bottomless. His efforts had, unfortunately, resulted in the bag in question swallowing a table and two chairs, and the bag itself had been deemed too dangerous of an item to leave it on the shelf or in a vault and was eventually destroyed for the greater good, on its turn leaving the lad sulking for weeks.

The old man would not be surprised to find out the student was already writing down ideas for improving the infamous spell on his free time, oftentimes right there in the house, just a floor above the room where the bag had had its feast.

“I can imagine at least ten other students ready and willing to learn from you,” all the other magisters would tell their colleague time and again. “That boy is trouble. He’s unpredictable, and the mix of disciplines he’s chosen – by the gods, it’s bond to cause trouble!”

“I know he might be rash sometimes,” the old man would answer time and again, “and do believe me when I say I have been on the receiving end of his pranks just as many times as any of you have, but the lad is bright, and his mind is just as sharp as any magister’s. I would even dare to say he might one day become one of the greatest wizards to ever walk this land. Assuming, of course, that he is allowed to pursue his goals.”

“His self-crafted spells get out of control more often than they work!” they would argue.

“Come on, now, the table turning into a big lizard was funny. And what magic experiments have been successful on the first try?”

“The lizard attacked the revered Lord Elvahin!”

“The revered Lord Elvahin _tripped_ over its tail _on his own accord_.”

They would huff and puff, and hurry off on their own business then, leaving their colleague victorious once again.

Today was not the first time, nor was it certainly the last, when the apprentice had interrupted the teacher. The old man did not mind. Talking out of place when one was interested in a topic was, at least in the old wizard’s opinion, a sign of devotion to the task at hand, rather than disrespect. Better a flashy, curious student with sharp wits and a brilliant mind who asked questions unprompted, than a lazy one who used his lectures as napping time. Indeed, the old wizard believed that it was his duty as a teacher to provide his students with the occasional intellectual challenge and historical data as well, rather than just magic teachings. After all, one could only ascend to a better version of themselves if they were provided with the right stimuli. Knowledge without thinking was useless, even to wizards, but thinking without knowledge tended to end in catastrophes, by default.

\- Ah, those who have seen it say they could hear a song unlike anything they had heard before. A cacophony of sounds, and yet the most beautiful music in the universe, promising the wielder of the Hammer of Glory everything they want to achieve. Our scholars have come to the conclusion that this artefact is, indeed, not of earthly descent and might have been forged by the Fair Folk, keeping its perilous nature in mind. Some even go as far as to say it was cast down to earth from the stars themselves. Regardless of its origins, the Kings and Queens of Fife have kept it hidden away, guarded by a dozen guards and three times as many locks at all times. They wield it in times of great distress, to keep the land safe, and then return it to its place, for the Hammer is far too dangerous to keep it in your near constantly. In fact, wizards of all circles have time and again tried to negate this devastating ability. Alas, it seems to be entirely unresponsive to regular magic.

\- And nothing could stop it?

The worry in the student’s eyes was clear as he gazed up from his notes. It was nothing unusual, among practitioners of magic – and those who heard this story for the first time in particular – to become frightened, for they were the ones to know just how easily such powerful magic could get out of hand. Spells that messed with one’s mind were particularly nasty and difficult to conjure even for the Grand Magisters of Auchtermuchty, let alone regular wizards, and were therefore considered the last measure and the final defence for a wizard. And here you had an artefact filled to the brim with unhinged magic, relying simply on how strong the wielder’s mental defences were.

\- One thing is said to. See, the Hammer brings the worst characteristics out in a person. It corrupts you with false promises. Fortune, power, glory on the battlefield. Incidentally, there _is_ an artefact in the world that could counter it. The Knife of Virtue, it’s called.

The young sorcerer snorted in his palm, and even the teacher could not resist chuckling. This name, while just as real as the Hammer’s, never failed to discharge the fear hanging in air.

\- Yes, indeed. It is said that, if a person is stabbed through their heart with it, the Knife will purge their soul of darkness and thus would, of course, negate the Hammer’s influence. We know not whether or not this is true, nobody has ever actually become corrupted by the Hammer, and, even if somebody eventually did, I fear that we would have no way of testing it. See, this artefact has been lost for a long time.

\- Couldn’t we just scry it? – the student suggested, before it dawned on him that hundreds had probably suggested this before him, and so would hundreds after him.

\- Whoever made this artefact, also made sure it could not be found by such trivial methods, I’m afraid. Many practitioners of magic have tried, and just as many have failed. Perhaps it’s for the best. The world needs a dark and a light side. You give one up – and you will see your free will die.

\- It sounds a bit… too weird, even for a _magical_ artefact. Far as I am concerned, stabbing somebody through their heart only makes them dead. Unless the legend means that every knife can become the Knife of Virtue if you kill a tyrant with it? A knife through the heart would effectively purge the darkness _and_ everything else out of a person.

\- The Knife is said to have been created by the same means as the Hammer, - the old wizard explained, - and possibly at the same time. They are believed to be the counterparts of each other. Whoever created the Hammer of Glory and gave it to the mortals, made sure that we also received the means of defending ourselves against it. Unfortunately, it is in the nature of humans to cast aside things they believe are useless to them. After all, all you need to resist the Hammer, is an iron will and a pure heart, and how hard can _that_ be?

\- I suppose… - the apprentice drew out a long, deep sigh, before attempting to balance the writing quill on his index finger as he slouched onto the table. – Hammer of Glory… Knife of Virtue… those names are awfully simple, though. Aren’t they, teacher?

\- Indeed, for all out knowledge of magic, we, wizards, are rather uninventive when it comes to naming things, don’t you think so? In fact, I once knew a guy who constantly got into most unbelievable adventures and who lost his arm to a kelpie and his leg to a unicorn. And he had the quaintest name.

\- And… how’d you call him?

\- Bill.

The quill fell to the surface of the table as the student’s shoulders shook with laughter that he tried but failed badly to contain.

\- Told you we were bad at naming things. Not everybody can boast such a magnificent name as you do. Fitting for your disciplines, too.

\- Chose them because of the name, obviously! – the student assumed a pompous pose, similar to ones embodied in statues of the kings of old. – Summoner Zargothrax, or Necromancer Zargothrax sound much better than Herbalist Zargothrax.

\- Your parents were certainly onto something when they named you, that much is clear.

There was always a friendly giving and taking between the teacher and the student. Most other magisters would not approve of such familiar treatment, yet, when you were over a hundred years old, you started realising that unwritten rules were just something some old hack had come up with at some point that, on its turn, had somehow caught traction.

\- May I ask a question? – when he was once again able to talk without sudden outbursts of laughter, the student spoke again.

\- I suppose one question wouldn’t hurt, yes?

\- I was at the Library a couple of days ago, and I read something strange in the old scrolls. Something about the so-called… spell weaving, I think? I think that was the name. It was mostly gibberish in something that only a drunk goblin could muster, though.

The magister paced about at the front of the study for a while, trying to remember where he had heard that name before, and, for a moment, the only sound in the room was his staff hitting the floor as he walked.

\- Ah, yes, - he finally nodded, - I remember. It is a discipline in magic, yes. Alas, it is no longer taught. In fact, they had stopped teaching it before I began to study here myself.

\- How comes? – Zargothrax attempted to balance the quill on his finger again, scrunching his nose when it did not wish to obey his will.

\- It is, perhaps, the most difficult of all disciplines in magic. With regular spells, you can invent and craft them as you please, and afterwards you use them whenever you need them. With spell weaving – and do remember that the true name for this discipline is long forgotten – the sorcerer had to work with what they had, right where they were. They had to invent the sequence right there and then, and an incredible number of factors had to be taken into consideration. Where you were, where the target was, what the area was like, whether there were any other people there. Make a mistake – and somebody had to pay dearly. Most wizards never mastered more than a couple of beginner spells in this discipline, therefore the magisters were discouraged from its further inclusion in the courses. In fact, I’ve only ever met one sorcerer who had mastered them. Indeed, I think I was about your age when I did.

\- Who were they? – the student tilted his head, the quill forgotten on the table.

\- I am afraid I never learned his name. The Hermit, they called him, in the caverns beneath Cowdenbeath.

\- I suppose a hermit would have all the time he needs to study, and without fearing he’d burn somebody’s face off. Well… aside from his own, that is.

\- True, that, - the old man chuckled. – Alas, I am afraid this discipline of magic died with him. It’s been a hundred years, it’s highly unlikely he could have survived that long.

\- You did.

\- I am an outlier, my dear boy, and I can tell you that it’s not as pleasant as it sounds. Now, let us not chase after old ghosts and rather concentrate on the tasks at hand, shall we? Now off you go, otherwise we’ll both be in trouble for you being late for your other class.

The student’s face dropped in a horrifying realization, and he began packing in a hurry. The quill and the ink bottle landed in an outer pocket, while the notes were hurriedly stuffed inside the bag as its owner made his way to the door. He almost tripped over the threshold, booked it down the corridor, on his way nearly turning over the table standing just outside the study. Downstairs, the wizard’s servant yelled something, followed by the student responding with something that sounded like an apology, then the front door opened and closed, and the house was once again silent.

Without a doubt, the boy would once become one of the Greats, if he continued on the path he had chosen and invested as much time and work in it as it demanded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (see first chapter for dues)

The city always appeared to hold its breath at night. In other places of the kingdom, life never stopped after sundown, for that was when the simple folk had the time to pour out into the streets and mingle. In Auchtermuchty, however, it dwindled down like a candle’s flame under a glass cup, leaving the streets empty, save for the few people who walked them at night.

At night, the sound of footsteps echoed, bouncing off the walls, and the joyous noise of daytime was replaced by hushed sounds that breached the window shutters as most people got ready for supper and bedtime. Somewhere, there was a baby crying; a cat meowed; somebody poured a bucket of water down the drain, and a lone and lazy dog in one of the small gardens some inhabitants of the city kept behind their homes occasionally gave off a bored ‘bork’ into the silence of the evening. Somewhere in the depths of the labyrinth of narrow alleyways and dead ends between the buildings that spread out like a cobweb connecting the main streets and where one could get lost for hours, there was a woman singing as she gathered up the dry laundry in her yard. Somewhere in the hollows under the roofs and in the attics, there were pigeons settling for the night, their coos soothingly soft in the darkness.

The wind had picked up, yet the air was warm regardless. The ever-present scent of roses mixed with those of late autumn flowers and leaves. Over the city walls floated the smell of freshly ploughed earth and last grass cut as the farmers wanted to ensure their livestock would not go hungry over the winter, and from somewhere close in the city came the very distinctive sweetly-sour smell of cabbage soup.

The marketplace stood empty, spooky, the booths with their colourful decorations rendered dull and dark in the moonless night. Here, the wind was tearing at the banners as though willing to rip them from the ropes, and the wooden construction creaked pitifully as the breeze run through holes and spaces between the boards.

A lone walked crossed the square hastily and turned around the corner and onto the main street leading towards the Academy. Unlike the marketplace, the path here was lit by lanterns in front of each house, their warm golden glow reflecting off the walls and cobblestones. Normally, the lazy feeling that spread through the whole city in the evenings would have hung in the air here as well, had it not been for the obnoxious noise coming from the back alleys. Whoever lived there, had decided that evenings when everybody around had already settled down for a peaceful night were the perfect time to work on their own little projects, they could possibly find no time for during the day.

Narrow path took them into the streets behind the homes and right into a circle of light cast through the door of what was a miniature smithy right there in the middle of the city. Even this late in the evening, somebody was hammering away furiously in the workshop, and the late visitor pondered whether they should even attempt to knock on the door instead of making their way inside without invitation. One normally did not interrupt a sorcerer at work, much less barged in right in the middle of what could be simple training or might just as well be an experiment of utmost importance, lest they wanted to become an unwilling part of said experiment.

Not to mention stray fireballs or lighting bolts turning you into a well-done steak.

While they pondered, the hammering stopped and somebody huffed, frustrated. Using the chance, the visitor knocked at the door.

\- Yah?

A pause followed as the person inside shuffled about, loudly so.

\- Well, come on in, don’t just stand there!

The workshop was small, approximately the size of a medium bedroom – and was definitely used as one as well, for an unmade bed had found its place in one corner. The walls were taken up by various tools of most peculiar origins that reflected light from the furnace in the opposite corner, and the heat said furnace radiated made the visitor wish they had not arrived in their autumn robes. In the middle of the room, there stood a life-sized iron pony that moved and threaded the floor under it just like a real horse would. The inhabitant of the workshop – and the author of the peculiar construction themselves was sitting on their knees next to the creature, hands deep inside what, on a living being, would the pony’s intestines. Their creation appeared to suffer no consequences or discomfort from it, however, its head turned, gazing, curious, at the creator.

\- Good evening! Need any help?

The iron pony froze at once, before turning its head and staring the guest down with its beady, unblinking glass eyes. Clearly, this invention was not intended to be just for entertainment, and the visitor could not help but to notice how heavy its hooves and how sharp its teeth looked at once.

The person behind the construction slapped the creature’s bum, letting it know it was to behave.

\- Oh, hi there! – Martha got to her feet and flashed a smile as she wiped her brow, leaving a long dark streak in the wake of her hand; her short, thick hair was a mess that begged for relief in the shape of a couple of buckets of water poured onto her head. – If it isn’t the Scourge of Auchtermuchty himself, in person!

\- Yes, very funny, - Zargothrax snorted, amused nonetheless.

\- Well, it’s true! Anywaaay… yes, thanks for the offer, but no. I’m doing pretty well. In fact, I expect to get this baby up and fully functional before the week is out! – the technomancer patted the iron pony’s back, and the creature nipped at her work clothes as if approving of her words. – There’s a tiny problem with the tail, but I suspect it’s a cogwheel gone awry. It keeps slapping me in the face while I work!

\- Martha, that’s what horses _do_.

\- They do? Now, that doesn’t sound right…

\- The majority of them, anyway. Well, in any case, - there was teasing in the sorcerer’s voice now, - let me know if it doesn’t work. I can get you an undead pony to fill in for the cogs. I promise it’ll be as good as your mechanisms!

\- And it’ll get me proclaimed a hack! No, thank you! – Martha shook her head, and the long-suffering, scratched googles – the witnesses of many a magic experiment gone south – danced around the girl’s neck. – What gets _you_ praise will get _me_ kicked from my apprenticeship!

\- And who offered to reinforce my spells with her tech just last week?

\- I cannot think of anyone, really! – Martha slouched on the pony’s back. – Look from the practical point of view! Regular spells are truly dull, aren’t they? If you cast a fireball, you get a fireball. If you resurrect the dead, you get undead… thing… whatever it was that you wanted to resurrect. If you make an iron pony, you get an iron pony. No hard feelings, mate, - she patted the creature’s neck. – Now, if you could _merge_ one discipline with the other, wouldn’t that be something?

\- I… offered you an undead pony just now?

The iron pony turned its head and stared the sorcerer down, clearly not pleased about Zargothrax’s offer to stuff something clearly dead and reanimated inside it. Now, Zargothrax had never been one for technomancy – and, quite frankly, he admitted that, even though he had chosen _necro_mancy as one of his disciplines, the creatures that the techs brought forth time and again made him feel uneasy, to say the least. Undead – they had at least been _living_ once. Demons and other beings that _summoners_ could call forth were also alive, in the more or less traditional meaning of that word. Iron ponies, however, were something completely different. Iron and other materials should, under no circumstances, be able to move on their own accord. There was no life in them. They were just pieces of scraps put together in the shape of a dog or a cat, or, like here, a horse. And magic was able to circumvent that law. It was creepy, but even then, the necromancer could not help but to wonder just how alive _could_ the technomancers make their creations become.

\- That, too! – Martha interrupted his trail of thought. – You’re headed into the right direction with that, but I’m talking bigger! Imagine the possibilities! Say, a spellcaster herbalist! Not just throwing fireballs or turning pests into rocks while planting a garden outside the house, but actually merging the crafts! Imagine a light spell, criss-crossed with a flower! Everything glows, like that dwarven algae the teacher told us about, remember? Like the algae, but… magic! See that tree outside? – the technomancer pointed at the open door, before leaving her invention on its own and heading outside herself, a dirty scrap of fabric in her hands she used to wipe the grime and oil off. The moment she had left the room, the iron pony froze in place, returning to its original state of a statue that was just a mechanism with clockworks inside, and Zargothrax could not help but to breathe a sigh of relief, before following the tech. – Look at this! Imagine this, but the leaves look like the night sky! All dark, with little glowing splatters on them! Like diamonds in a void! And the bark should be warm! That way, you can lie under it the whole night and just stare into the canopy!

\- That’s quite… ambitious, - the young sorcerer threw his head back ad stared into the canopy, imagining, as ordered, how such magnificent plant would look like. As he did, his hood slipped off and the night wind immediately caught up the unruly hair, leaving the wizard spluttering as he tried to get it out of his face. – Damnit!

\- Ambitious… - Martha’s face dropped at once, - I don’t like that word. It’s what the magisters told me as well. Ambitious means “impossible””. _And_ it means “dangerous”. We’re _wizards_, for pete’s sake! We should be spitting on “impossible” and writing our own path! Instead, we keep to doctrines and spells from hundreds of years ago, and everything that has the potential of carrying a fresh breath into the disciplines is immediately shot down. And dangerous? An undead unicorn breathing fire, I’d understand! That’s bad! You! Don’t you go around awakening dead unicorns, you hear me? But what could be dangerous about _a tree with a starry canopy_?

\- I reckon some poor sod might try to steal its seeds, maybe?

\- Who would do such thing?

\- Horrible, horrible seed thieves. So, you done with the pony for the night?

***

Jacques had excused himself early enough, on the behalf of one of his final trials taking place the next day, and disappeared into the interwoven narrow streets behind the tavern. Once he was gone, the spirits dropped hastily, and his two friends did not stick around for much longer, either, even despite the cheerful company that had gathered in the back room at “The Prancing Unicorn”.

After the stuffy, crowded room, the fresh evening air felt like a gulp of cold water on a hot summer day, and the silence that befell them as the tavern door closed behind the two wizards was almost overwhelming. Most of the city already slumbered, save for a few tired, most likely disciplined guards who passed by on a patrol; in most houses, the lights were already out, leaving only the lanterns at the front door to show the late walkers their path. There had been no moon this evening; it had risen and set before the night had even had the chance to arrive, and now darkness hung over the city and the surrounding lands like a thick woven blanket, undisturbed even by the stars above Auchtermuchty that were particularly bright tonight. Traditionally, they were considered a good sign among people who had important meetings or business to attend the next day. 

The air was oddly chill, and a sharp breeze of wind was not rare in the streets tonight; apparently, the weather was turning differently than it had been anticipated, and the spells protecting the city were struggling to meet the sudden changes

Pellucid sound of a silver bell reached their ears as the wizards walked, the magical clock at the Academy ringing in the tenth hour.

On such nights, one wished to stay outside until the dawn broke, even despite the creeping cold.

Martha was the first to disturb the silence:

\- Hey, before I forget, I have a favour to ask of you!

\- I… - Zargothrax stared at the girl for a moment. Such words were rarely followed by something that would not get any of them in trouble, by default. – I am not going to like this, am I?

\- Oh, come on, Zarg_y_, have I ever gotten you into bigger trouble than you yourself managed to?

Martha had hooked onto his elbow, and they were walking side by side, her grip strong enough for the sorcerer to wish he had not opted out of those advanced close combat classes they offered students at the start of each year. Considering that and how she spent her days handling heavy equipment in the workshop, Zargothrax was fairly certain that the technomancer, despite their height difference, would be able to lift and carry him around like a helpless kitten whenever she so pleased.

\- Between what exactly?

\- I am not asking you to turn a table into a lizard, don’t worry! – Martha chuckled at the thought. – Nah. That’s for later! How about a small parting gift for the Academy? We could let it loose the day we leave, and then let the old people figure out how to deal with it. No, all _I_ need right now is a tiny little favour. I need a book.

The unarticulated grunt must have expressed a myriad of emotions, for the sound of laughter filled the otherwise empty street.

\- Don’t worry! I am not asking for the Super-Secret Book of the Greatest Secrets of Sorcerers Everywhere!

\- Oh, I get it, you want its smaller cousin, the Secret Book of the Secrets of Sorcerers Everywhere, right?

\- How did you guess?

\- What else could you want? Not the Big Book of Legendary Recipes for sure.

\- On the contrary to what people might thing, I actually do cook! It’s just that me and kitchens everywhere have a very long feud going on between us, but I think they’ll give up any day now.

\- Oh, gods, please no! – Zargothrax grasped at his heart, theatrically so. – I live in fear of the return of whatever that gooey, twitchy thing was! It’s what gets me up and into the kitchen myself! “Otherwise Martha will decide I don’t eat enough, and then she’ll try to _cook_ something!” Don’t make me fear for my life, I already have undead things trying to chew me up every once in a while!

\- Okay, okay, I hereby promise I will never try to cook anything for you! – Martha raised her hand in a mock oath. – I can’t believe this! Suddenly, everybody’s a critic!

\- Think I’d do good as one? – the sorcerer puffed his chest out. – Now, what about that book?

\- You said your teacher has that book of legends, right? Well, see, I’ve been trying my best to get my hands on one. I’m running out of ideas and, frankly, unicorns, trolls, goblins and kelpies have been done to hell and back. If I want to finish my studies with an “Excellent”, I need to impress a really tired, really bored council of magisters that have seen it all ten times, but to do that I need some inspiration, otherwise I’ll be yet another graduate bringing in a dancing goblin. I tried the Library, but all the copies are on hands, and the waiting list might as well be three years long. I don’t need it for long, just a couple of days. So, I thought I should ask you, before I go on a rampage.

\- Well, - Zargothrax tsked a couple of times, thinking, - I’ll see what I can do. It’s not like he’s doing anything with it, he knows it all by heart… presumably.

\- Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! – Martha launched herself at him, arms tight around the sorcerer’s neck, as if she wanted to squeeze the life out of him.

\- Martha! – he croaked, trying his best to get her _off_, unsuccessfully so. – Martha, the tunnel vision! _The tunnel vision!_

\- _What_ vision? – the technomancer released him, mostly due to surprise. – Oh… sorry, my bad!

\- How can there be… - it took Zargothrax more than one attempt to be able to breathe normally again, - how can there be so much _strength_ in such small body?

\- Aww, you’re being too kind, really! But thank you, it’d really mean a lot if you at least tried to get that book for me.

\- Hey, that’s what friends are for. Now, may I walk you back home, My Lady?

\- You most certainly may, Sir! – Martha accepted his offer, but not before elbowing her friend in the side, for a good measure.

\- Let me guess, you’re staying at the workshop tonight, aren’t you?

Martha nodded. They had turned around the corner and into the narrow street leading to the yard.

\- Yes. I still have to finish a few things, and the night’s still young. What about you? You going back to the dorms? The rest are probably there, don’t let all the fun get away just because me and Jacques are such nerds!

\- Probably not. I didn’t get much sleep last night, what with the crypts and all. All I want to do now is crush down on a surface that’s vaguely horizontal. And the teacher is still awake at this time. I should ask him about the book before I forget.

\- Thanks again, - the technomancer hooked her arms around his neck and just did not want to let go even though she had to stand on her toes, hanging there as if they had been apart for years and only now had one of them arrived home, and there were— _was she crying?_

\- What’s wrong? Hey? – for a moment, the sorcerer stood still, unsure how to proceed, before resting hands on Martha’s shoulders.

This only made the technomancer grip him tighter and hide her face in the crook of his neck.

\- I don’t know. I don’t know, - when Martha finally spoke, her voice was croaky, the sorceress choking back tears that just did not wish to stop falling, - I just can’t stop. I don’t want to let go of you. Feels like, if I do, you’ll be gone forever. I’ve probably had one glass of cider too much. That, - she let go and retreated, rubbing her eyes as she spoke, - and you’re a sight for sore eyes!

\- Thanks a lot!

\- I’ll see you tomorrow then?

\- First thing in the morning! Unless one of us sleeps in.

\- We both probably will. I’ll make breakfast!

\- No!

The door to the workshop closed behind Martha’s back, and Zargothrax found himself alone in the small yard. The air was crisp, the wind had picked up noticeably while they had been on their way from the tavern to here, and tonight it felt as though the very being of the city vibrated with unrestrained magical energy, like an ancient monster deep beneath Auchtermuchty had raised its head after a millennia of slumber.

He only noticed the hooded figure that walked down the street a second after he turned around the corner and run into them. Apologizing profusely, the sorcerer cut a circle around them, in his hurry to get back onto his previous track.

The sooner he was back home, the better.

There was something in the air, Zargothrax thought, for the first time this evening, as he wrapped the cloak tighter around his shoulders. Being the greatest stronghold of magic in this part of the world, there were a few things… peculiar, about Auchtermuchty. One of them was the weather. Even as the seasons changed and mud caked the streets, the air stayed warm most of the time – the temperature of the first warm day of spring or the last warm day of autumn, and the wind caressed one’s cheek like a loving parent.

But now, now the wind had a sharp bite to it, as it run through the streets, and the temperatures had dropped. Here and there, people slammed their windows shut, eager to go back to sleep after being disturbed by the sudden change in weather.

The young sorcerer wondered whether it was in any way connected to the Magistrate and their ill meet with the Crown Prince of Fife that had taken place a few days ago.

Of course, Zargothrax had not been there to witness the meeting; he had only heard about it from his teacher. More like eavesdropped, actually, together with Martha who had done her best to stop giggling. The Prince of Fife had laid out his ambitious plans to the magisters, only to be turned down. The practitioners of magic, they supposedly said, regardless of whether they were magical or non-magical, were not supposed to wage wars for ambitious monarchs, no matter how well the McFife clan had served their land in the past.

Dues had to be given to Prince Angus, for he had accepted being turned down by the magisters with the dignity of a noble man. His head had been raised high, his back straight, as he descended the stairs of the Magistrate’s building, not a muscle moving in his face. Together with his companions – a large man wearing leather and furs and with unkempt hair and great, braided beard, and one of the Knights of Crail, an order that had had a bone to pick with the wizards for quite a while – he had walked down the street leading to the city gate, where the trio had gotten onto their steeds and disappeared into the afternoon shortly thereafter. Later, the fishwives at the marketplace who would not scare back from staring right at a _god_, let alone a prince, had discussed the Prince of Fife flaring his nostrils like an infant and gotten a good laugh out of it.

One thing was certain: the magisters of all circles present in Auchtermuchty were deeply concerned about the ambitious young whippersnapper trying to claim the throne in the absence of his ill father.

Zargothrax made a mental note to ask his teacher whether their collective mood could influence the weather, as a gust of wind forced him to lean his head down and rather allow it to make a mess out of his hair than let its fingers have a go at his face. The flames in lanterns in front of the buildings danced even under their glass covers where they were supposed to be safe from anything but a storm, and it truly felt as if all the magic in Auchtermuchty had gone crazy at once. The air was charged, leaving the impression as though he was caught in the middle of a thunderstorm. A little more, he thought – and his hair were going to stand up, like moments before a lightning strike.

***

Zargothrax had to let himself in; the servant of his teacher, normally still up and about at this time, was gone on what was, without doubt, some very urgent business, and the house stood quiet and dark, save for the street lantern that cast its trembling light through the window of the living room downstairs. Air smelled of parchment, ink and various herbal tinctures, and salves the old man used to keep the dreadful ache in his joints away, and, amidst it all, there was the scent of fresh wood – the one really unfortunate door that had suffered in an experiment of magical origins earlier this week had been replaced today, with a paint job scheduled in two days.

The second floor of the house was quiet. Quiet enough to remind the young necromancer of the crypts outside the city where he spent not just one night studying the arts no sane wizard would even remotely consider permitting to be studied within the city walls, solely due to the fact that their results usually varied from unruly undead to demons on the loose, and nobody would have the time to cleanse the whole of Auchtermuchty of their presence.

In fact, it was almost too quiet for Zargothrax’s liking. Save for the wind. The wind that normally whistled in the windows was now howling like a predatory wolf in the middle of a harsh winter. The floorboards, covered in old but sturdy carpet, made no sound as he walked down the corridor leading to the study, and the deep red of the carpet merged with shadows and left the impression as if he were walking across a void. Which was, incidentally, the reason the sorcerer failed to notice and tripped over something blocking his path, only a lucky coincidence in the shape of a doorframe clutched at the last second saving him from faceplanting, undignified, onto the floor.

The dark spot on the ground hissed, and the sorcerer let out a sigh of relief.

\- Goblin? What are you doing out here, at this hour? Aren’t you supposed to be all snuggly at the fireplace?

The blind cat hissed, pouncing and missing Zargothrax by far, but that did not stop him from trying one more time, and the animal bumped into the wizard’s leg and remained hanging from his clothes.

\- What is wrong with you tonight? Ouch! Stop that! – Zargothrax berated the feline, under his breath, before picking the feisty ball of fur and anger up. – Come, let’s get you back to your place before y—

There were voices coming from the study that made him stop dead in his tracks. First thought on his mind was, indeed, knocking on the door and entering casually, with Goblin in tow, muttering an apology for the late visit and leaving, and yet there was something keeping him back – and it was not Goblin who currently fought like his life depended on whether or not he got out of his human’s grasp. It was a feeling, something similar to butterflies in stomach, but not in the good meaning of that phrase.

One of the voices arguing belonged to Zargothrax’s teacher. The other was definitely a young man’s, one he did not recognize, and that was, frankly, enough for his curiousness to take the upper hand, and the young sorcerer cast a look from behind the door that had been left ajar, most likely after Goblin had made his escape.

His teacher was at the table, far as the sorcerer could see. The other man in the room was, indeed, young, with short and messy brown hair and dressed in light armour that, even in the poor lighting conditions, had a greenish tint to it, complete with a cape. Casually swung over his shoulder was a large war hammer with an insignia carved into it that Zargothrax had difficulty distinguishing in the shadows, and it appeared that, despite his slim build and the size of the weapon itself, the man had no difficulty holding it up with one hand.

The old wizard spoke again, and his voice trembled:

\- Please, child, I am begging you, - he pleaded, - put the hammer down! Return it to its place and forget about it! You don’t yet have the power to control it, and, if lucky, will never have to use it in battle!

A shadow passed the prince’s – for it was none other than Prince Angus McFife himself – face. For a moment, he beheld the weapon, and it appeared as though he would see reason. For a moment only, for next he slung it back across his shoulder, the queer grin on his face now terrifying in the trembling light the fireplace cast on the sorcerer’s study.

\- You calling me weak, old man?

\- I mean no insult, - the old sorcerer stepped back, out of Zargothrax’s field of vision, - I merely meant to say the hammer wants to control you.

\- No, no, that’s _not_ what you said. You said I didn’t have the power to control it.

Both of them were out of the young sorcerer’s sight now, and then there was a thud, a sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Using the opportunity of the human being distracted, Goblin let his claws into the wizard’s arm – to no avail, as the thick robe prevented him from doing more damage than merely scratching skin. Zargothrax paid no attention to him, just shifted his arm to give the animal better support, his attention bound by the people who were just a few meters from him.

\- You said, - the Crown Prince of Fife continued, in the meantime, - and I quote, “You don’t have the power to control it.” Know what I think? I think that pretty much says that you consider me weak. And you know what else?

If there was still a part of his being that was not sounding alarm yet, its voice was most likely drowned out by the rest of the choir screaming to turn around and run from the house as fast as he could. _Run! Fetch help! Do something!_ And, despite it all, Zargothrax remained standing where he was, in the dark corridor just outside the study on the second floor of his teacher’s house in the outer circle of the city, with a very pissed feline in his arms.

There was a dull sound. Something heavy collided with something that clearly gave way to the heavy object, and then there was a wheeze. Again the dull sound, and the person listening behind the door bit his lower lip to avoid making any sound other than laboured breath, the cat grasped tightly to his chest.

\- I think, - McFife stepped into the middle of the room again, the hammer in his hand dripping a dark substance, - that you are wrong.

Zargothrax knew neither where they had come from nor for how long had the person been there, and he did not exactly have the time to wonder about such trivial questions; not when his back hit the stone wall on the opposite side of the corridor hard, and most certainly not when their fingers wrapped around his throat. Goblin, dropped on the floor in most undignified manner, yowled and bolted into the shadows, hitting the table near the door of the study and sending the glass vase on it crushing down on the floor.

Good as the protective spells were, there was little they could do on such short notice, and still, even with his mind clouded from pain and lacking air, the young sorcerer attempted, desperately, to weave them into being. The prince’s bodyguard – or whoever the imposing, huge man was – snarled, as he towered over his victim. His grip tightened, regardless of the two hands grasping at his one in a desperate attempt to escape, and the world began swimming in front of the wizard’s eyes.

\- Hoots! Stop fooling around! – the Crown Prince of Fife’s voice, bored as if he had not just slaughtered somebody in cold blood, rung in the corridor, as the man ordered his friend around as though the latter was a mere servant. – We don’t have the time for this, if we want to be over and done by the morning.

The hand let go, and the disoriented sorcerer slouched onto the floor. For a short moment, a smirking face swam across his field of vision, and there was probably a voice speaking that his brain was incapable of perceiving, before something collided with his face, knocking his head backwards against the wall. What little protective spells were there, eased the impact only slightly, leaving the wizard with sharp pain in his skull as he slid down to the side.

Light from the fireplace that was coming from the study now that the door was wide open reflected from something in the Hootsman’s hands. The man took a swing, the shiny surface closed in, the young sorcerer’s subconsciousness caught onto what was about to happen and panicked, pouring everything it could into a protective spell, and then the world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain went to the fukken town with _everything_.  
I'd like to express formal apology to poor Zargy for everything that has happened so far and for everything that will happen in the future.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (see chap 1 for dues)

The consciousness, when there were finally signs of it, was a twisting, cheeky thing that evaded as soon as one attempted to reach out for it, and the dull throbbing inside his skull only made Zargothrax wish he could stay asleep for a little longer. Clearly, he had had one drink too much at the tavern last night, and now his body was having its revenge, his head like a log. There was something soft and warm resting against the sorcerer’s shoulder; apparently Martha had not done any better. Crashing down after a long evening of studies – and now also an outing at the tavern – into the same bed was a thing that had never really went away as they got older, just like substituting each other for a pillow, and both were used to wake up either to the other draped across them like a useless, human-shaped blanket, or being entangled in a mess of limbs, one inevitably playing the role of a giant teddy bear for the other.

Something cold poked his cheek.

Goblin blinked his sightless eyes, the poor, twitching light the source of which Zargothrax was unable to determine reflecting from them, and meowed. Incidentally, he was also the one warming the wizard’s shoulder.

Right. Martha was left at her teacher’s workshop. That means he was now left to suffer in solitude, and, by the gods, his head intended to make him feel sorry for even being born.

He wondered how much time it was until dawn.

Body felt like it was full of lead, head just did not want to get any clearer, and, to top it all, one of his eyes was dead shut, and Zargothrax could not, for the love of his life, remember what he had done to it yesterday evening to cause this.

Not the mention that the bed was surprisingly hard, too, and his body felt numb, as if he had instead just fallen and slept on the floor and in the draught. He sniffed, wondering just how sick he was going to get afterwards. He made another attempt to rise, this time much more successful, even despite the headache, as his hand found the side of the table to hold onto, and Zargothrax finally managed to, at the very least, pull himself into a sitting position. An attempt to rub his eyes of the remains of sleep and whatever was keeping the left one shut, ended, however, in a fiasco, as his hand brushed over what he could, in his sorry, confused state, only describe as a “rather painful spot”, and pain shot through it and the better half of his face in addition, leaving the sorcerer with clenched teeth as he counted to ten in an attempt to slow his breathing down enough to concentrate what little magic was left – strange, for he could not recall casting spells that were capable of consuming strength at such rates last night – to deal with the problem. It took him a while to get a grasp of the sliver of magic left, as it avoided the sorcerer as expertly as the consciousness had before.

He had definitely drunk too much last night.

It was only when most of the pain had been reduced to an annoying but bearable ache that Zargothrax realised there was no bed – and no hangover. In fact, the only thing out of the hypothetical situation that he had been able to pinpoint correctly was the small table – overturned – that he was holding onto as he sat on the carpeted floor outside his teacher’s study. It was still dark, and there was a very distinctive smell in the air that every student to have ever chosen the necromancy discipline to study would recognize even if blindfolded.

There was blood. Lots of it, judging by the intensity of the smell.

_Blood…_

There was something at the back of his mind that stubbornly avoided being recalled.

_Blood…_

_”We don’t have the time for this, if we want to be over and done by the morning!”_

_The book… he wanted to borrow that book from his teacher, for Martha. He arrived… then he walked down the corridor… almost tripped over Goblin… then what happened? There must have been something…_

_The study!_ it hit him. The door was open, and the smell was seeping _from there._

_Hammer… prince… Prince Angus had been arguing with the old man. They argued, and then…_

The sound of explosion – only a fireball could create a sound, such as this – tore the sorcerer from his thoughts. At first, it felt like it echoed in the city. Then, ears began distinguishing many similar ones. Many spells cast in the city, all at the same time. What could be the—

_Prince Angus… in the study…_

_Teacher!_ it hit Zargothrax like the Hammer of Glory itself would have. He stumbled to his feet, a weird burning, pulling pain in the left side of his face, as though gravity itself protested this very part of the body being lifted from the ground. The young sorcerer made one step, then another, clambering towards the open door, his legs unwilling to obey, his head spinning, not adding much in terms of comfort.

The study was dark. What candles had been there before, had gone out, and only the fireplace was left, giving off a golden gleam. The large table cast a shadow, and, in this shadow, between the table and the old sofa…

Zargothrax knew the answer to the question he was afraid to ask, long before he had reached the body itself. There was nothing he – or anybody else – could do to help. Not now, not before. The man had died almost instantly – it was unlikely anyone could have survived for long, not with these injuries. Even despite him having spent years of his studies dealing with dead bodies bearing all sorts of traumas and in all stages of decomposing, the necromancer turned away and stubbornly avoided looking again at what had once been a living person (for he could not force himself to call it a corpse), he was still dizzy as he stumbled towards the fireplace and leant against the massive mantlepiece, disregarding the fire that rumbled in its depths and threatened to catch onto the wizard’s robes at any moment. Goblin, who had trotted into the room after him, was now rubbing against his leg.

Another wave of explosions reached his ears, closer this time, and the windows trembled. Another volley like this, just a bit closer, and they would shatter into the room.

_By the gods, what was going on?_

Armoured steps marched down the street outside in unison, and the sorcerer let go of the mantelpiece and pushed towards the window, his body protesting the sudden motion it had to waste the already scarce strength on. Staying in the shadow next to the window, with his back against the wall – for he did not trust himself with leaning against the sill and not falling head-first through the glass right now – Zargothrax beheld a group of soldiers (_Wait, were those the Knights of Crail?_) march by, headed towards the centre of the city where the sky and walls of buildings stood alit with all colours of the rainbow and where thick, dark clouds of smoke rose towards the autumn sky. The sky above the marketplace just a few blocks away was just one of many patches of dark smoke amidst what should have been just light clouds tonight, and the Library and the Academy… dear gods… even from here, the young sorcerer could see the flames that burst through the windows of the Library, consuming everything on their path. As he watched, one of the spires of the Academy that was equally ravaged by fire gave in and crumbled onto the courtyard and possibly the heads of the people currently there.

When he attempted to recall details already much later, there were none. Everything had gone by auto-pilot from there on, and Zargothrax only came to it when he was in the labyrinth of streets behind the house, with a bag over his shoulder, a knife snatched from his teacher’s desk hidden in his robes, and Goblin perched on his shoulders the way the cat was used to hitch rides around the house. His left eye stubbornly did not want to open, and, while he had done everything in his power to stop his head from trying to send him tumbling onto the ground, the contents of his stomach were still determined to escape regardless of whether or not the headache was still there, but Zargothrax just as stubbornly had decided that, at least right now, these were the least of his problems.

Fate was on his side, at least at the moment. Most knights seemed to be deployed towards the city centre, with the Academy, Library and the Magistrate, along with the area where most of the wizards had their quarters and houses being their main targets, leaving only a few groups to patrol the areas in the outer circle that the regular city folk inhabited. A few times the young sorcerer retreated into the shadows of a doorway, an alcove, a narrow street by a building, where he held his breath and prayed to anyone that was listening, to be merciful to him and Goblin, as a couple of knights marched by, before he continued on. In these moments, the time stopped for him, and even his heart appeared too loud, too treacherous. Just one more beat – and they will hear, they will know there was somebody hiding there. Goblin appeared to think the same, for the cat flattened himself to the sorcerer’s neck in those moments and seemed to stop breathing as well, the feline’s muscles tense, as though he was ready to pounce at somebody he could not even see, let alone be a worthy opponent to.

Yet another patrol passed, their armoured steps clanking away around the corner, and only now did Zargothrax grow aware of how eerily quiet the city had gone.

Gone were the explosions and the crackle of lightnings, and the screams, and the angry yelling of the intruders. It was quiet enough to hear the patrol’s steps as the two knights walked on. Only the ash from the burning buildings fell slowly from the sky, settling on rooftops and streets like perverse snow, and the stench of smoke lay heavy in the streets.

He knew the wizards, knew none of them would surrender without a fight, even if that battle was against the king’s army. The silence would only mean…

Corpses…

By the gods, he almost tripped over one of the bodies already lined up on the street right where Zargothrax wanted to exit the labyrinth, having deemed this, mostly uninhabited part of the city quiet enough, and the sorcerer instinctively withdrew back into the safety of the shadows. Just in time, too, for a few soldiers tasked with dealing with the dead turned around the corner, carrying a body with them. The person – for once again the sorcerer could not bear to think of it as a mere corpse like the ones he was used to working with in the crypts – was covered from his sight, save for a limp hand hanging at their side. A hand covered in oil and sooth, and the tell-tale marks of the many times its owner had either fallen asleep with sharp, pointy things in close proximity, or when her technomancy had gone completely bollocks and made an attempt on the lives of everything and everyone in the room.

Goblin rubbed his head against the wizard’s. At the right moment, too – just a bit more, and Zargothrax would have thrown himself at the offenders, regardless of how shaky his legs were and how much effort he had to put into simple things such as walking right now. The potion he, in his morbid confusion, had found on one of the shelves in the study had given some strength back to him; just enough for the feeling of dread to kick in and rob it right back as the odd couple progressed through the city. Now, however, that strength was creeping back, aided, or, rather, fuelled by anger building up in the sorcerer’s chest until he felt capable of burning the city to the ground with everybody still in it, who had participated in this madness or who had seen and heard it happen and still chose to do nothing.

_The prince,_ a voice at the back of his head whispered, _the prince is still in the city, somewhere. The prince will come here, to witness the success of his twisted plan._ Then _you strike. Not now, not at these mutts licking their master’s boots. No, strike at the master himself!_

_Good things come to those who can wait._

***

The northern part of the outer circle of Auchtermuchty was more deserving of the title of a slum than anything else, and it had been abandoned since before Zargothrax had even been born. Here, the buildings slumped against each other, too dangerous even for the poorest of the poor to consider them a space to live in. Stones and all imaginable and unimaginable garbage littered the back streets where only stray dogs and cats wandered in search of rats, and the air stunk of rot and waste the sources of which one did not want to guess, let alone know. Even the city guard only frequented the two large streets waving their way through here, and those people who wandered through the area to cut their route to or from the northern gate did so hastily, lest misfortune or trouble befell them.

Earlier, this part of the city had housed the wizards. That had been before the Magistrate forbade any experiments that had even the slightest potential to destroy a building from being carried out, first inside one’s own home, later within the city walls in general – these particular slums being an example of what happened during the aforementioned experiments. Most of the buildings had, indeed, these tests to thank for their sorry state, and it was only by sheer dumb luck that most of them still had walls to show.

One such building was a two-storey house that must have, in its heyday, looked quite impressive, but now resembled a barn somebody had torched, then taken a few rounds of exploding projectiles to it. Half destroyed in an unsuccessful magical experiment (one that robbed the perpetrator of her life, too), it was a hazard to everyone, including the person currently hiding in there. 

Now that the city’s magical defences and other spells were gone, dissolved into the night as their casters fell to the blades of the intruders, the air was cold and the north wind shook one to the very bone, forcing the fugitive to wrap the woollen cloak tighter around his shoulders as he waited. His left arm was holding Goblin, who was everything but used to life outside a warm, safe house; in his right hand the young sorcerer clutched the knife taken from his teacher’s study.

Somewhere among the bodies lined up on the opposite side of the dark street there was everyone he knew and cared about. Somewhere, there was his teacher who had time and again vouched for him when the other magisters were at the end of their patience after yet another prank gone… sometimes not exactly the way it had been intended in the first place. Somewhere, there was Martha, with her occasionally inane ideas and wondrous inventions, who had dreamed about trees with starry canopies just last evening. Somewhere, there was Jacques, whose sense of perfection and duty both annoyed and amused his friends, but who was a sport once his responsibilities had been taken care of. Somewhere, there was the gaggle of their assorted friends and acquaintances. None of them would have gone down without a fight, and Zargothrax wished all to well that, instead of heading to his teacher’s house last evening, he would have either remained with Martha or headed to the student’s accommodations where there was always a room waiting for each of them even despite the fact they spent most of their time at their teachers’.

He should have…

The click-clack of horseshoes on pavement closed in, and the few guards that had been loitering on the street until now shuffled about, their steps slow and heavy as they prepared to greet their superiors.

Zargothrax rested his head against the cold surface of the stone wall, careful to stay in the shadows. Every once in a while, he fed a trickle of magic into the spell that kept most of his pain away and dissipated the fog that clouded his mind and vision alike, all while painfully aware that it was the strength that he could have a need for later. But, by the time he did… _by that time,_ the voice in his head whispered, _you won’t be needing it anymore._

And there he was now, Prince Angus McFife himself. He and his two companions – the barbarian and the knight – rode down the street on horses the young sorcerer recognized as ones that belonged to the magisters. The prince showed no emotions as he passed the neat row of corpses of wizards, his pale, handsome face like carved of marble in the dancing light of the torches. His companions who rode a couple of steps behind him were equally void of emotion, appearing more bored than anything else. The horses, unused to the stench of blood and gore, snorted and tossed their heads about, only to be reined in time and again by the riders – it was the only time the trio showed any sort of emotion, annoyance, as they moved on. Their shadows danced on the walls of the buildings, and, finally, on the wall of the room the secret observer was hiding in.

The young sorcerer clutched the knife to his chest. One part of him, the furious, hurting, desperate one, wanted to lunge at the prince. The other, the sensible one, told to stay put.

_Okay._

_Now!_

_Now is the right time!_

_Go!_

Goblin stirred under his cloak and snuggled closer to the human the moment he had prepared to let go of the cat and throw himself out of their hiding spot. The feeling was so familiar, so calming, so very tranquil – and Zargothrax slouched against the wall, defeated.

What _could_ he do? An injured, exhausted, half-blind wizard who had never lifted anything heavier than a staff? Against a well-rested warrior at the zenith of his strength? Even if he got past the soldiers _and_ McFife’s two friends, a magician with a depleted pool of magical energy would be no match for a man who had spent most of his life training in the arts of war and weapons.

The right moment had passed, the horses trotted down the street and obediently turned around the corner behind the last body put on display like a morbid token, and the chance was gone.

For a while, Zargothrax sat, staring into the opposite wall.

The magic would restore itself over the course of a few days, maybe a week. It was nothing out of the extraordinary; it had already happened, at the beginning of his studies when the urge to show the world and the teachers what he thought he was capable of was greater than the common sense, which had resulted in him getting knocked out cold for an hour or two. Multiple times, too, because learning from own mistakes was for the weak. In fact, he assumed that was exactly what had happened this time as well, even if he had no idea what the spell could have been, for the last moments he had spent more or less awake were erased from his memory. Right now, Zargothrax assessed, there was just enough strength left in his body to drag him out of the city. There were tunnels here, if his memory did not deceive him, ones that connected the city and the old crypts on the abandoned burial grounds where half of his studies had taken place. He could use those, to get out, and, once he was outside, away and rested, he could then plan for the future.

Assuming, of course, there was a future for him to be had.

***

Life – oh, the irony! – in the city of Auchtermuchty did not stop with the prince’s departure. Now that the sunrise was nigh, a rose line at the horizon growing ever larger, the soldiers hurried to do away with the corpses, but not before counting the casualties.

The wizards had fought fiercely, particularly with their backs against the wall – and not just the older, more experienced ones. Oh no, _everybody_ had, including those who had only begun their studies. One of the Knights of Crail shuddered, recalling what he described to his comrades as a monstrous, nightmarish horse made of iron charging right at him that had trampled two of the king’s soldiers partaking in the raid, before missing the knight by a finger’s width.

They had fought – and they had made the mistake to retreat towards the centre of the city where the Knights of Crail and the king’s troops could round them the wizards up like cattle from all sides and pick them off one by one, much thanks to the downright lousy planning of the city that did not foresee an infantry or any other kind of assault on the behalf of “Who would be insane enough to attack a city full of wizards anyway”. A lot of them had been in the courtyard when the burning spire came crumbling down upon it, taking countless lives with it that took the better part of the night just to excavate and that were too burned and crippled to even determine whether what the soldiers entrusted with this task had in front of them was male or female, let alone even attempt to identify the person. Thus, attempts to assign a name to each of them were soon dropped, and, after identifying those that _could_ be identified, the scribe mostly ticked a random empty box on the parchment and called it a day. Shortly speaking, it was a mess – one that none of the participants were too pleased about, and most of the knights, rather than helping with the bodies, left the slums to scout for surviving wizards that would either be of use to the crown or join their friends lined up on the street.

Even before the daybreak, the regular citizens who had spent the night huddles up fearful in their attics or basements began pouring into the streets, both terrified and curious. The more brazen ones, the simple folk often referred to as “peasants” in particular, scurried down to the northern parts of the outer circle, looking for both thrill and free entertainment, disregarding the guard’s well-meant advices not to get in the way. A noisy, nosy crowd poured into the abandoned slums, laughing and whistling when the soldiers in charge of collecting the bodies would trip or accidentally drop something that had once been part of a living human being, and when it slid across the pavement, accompanied by a wet, sloppy sound like meat on the counter in a butcher’s shop. The boldest and nosiest townies soon breached the figurative line across the street for a closer look, followed by the ever-present gossip grandmas and fishwives who never wasted an opportunity to get a closer look at recent events, even if those were as bloody and devastating as these, and the soldiers and the city guard had to put up with a crowd of peasants wandering amidst them, commenting and giving salty advices whenever they saw an opportunity to nag the military troops.

Had somebody bothered to walk to the city wall and look into the distance at that moment, they could have had the chance to see a lone figure in the morning twilight as it made its way across the fields surrounding Auchtermuchty. The fate, however, was on the fugitive’s side, for the Knights of Crail were busy turning the city upside-down, combing its streets for surviving practitioners of magic, and most of the city guard had been called from their regular duties to help with the dead, leaving just a few patrols on the whole of the city that were currently busy keeping an eye on the merchant’s properties, lest burglars and thieves used the commotion to seek easy money.

As such, neither Zargothrax nor Goblin heard the heart-wrenching, desperate wails of one of the fishwives who cursed the wizards, the magisters, the city guard, the Knights of Crail, the king’s troops, the Hootsman, Ser Proletius and Prince Angus McFife in addition, as she clutched the lifeless body of her completely ordinary son who had never had anything to do with magic but who now lay amidst the dead bodies of its practitioners lined along the street, merely because he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. And neither of them saw how all the soldiers present to witness this scene turned pale at the same horrifying realization.

_The realization that somebody now had to tell their superiors that they were one body short._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>Any resemblances to actual places are a complete coincidence.</s>  
Give me a name and its purpose in a fantasy setting, and I'll turn it into something that probably isn't accurate at all.
> 
> Now, I know some things might not make sense at the moment. They will, but later on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pissed, angery unicorn actually really chill with people he likes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split the last chapter into two, because they didn't fit together well.

The horses snorted, worried, as they felt a stranger in their near, and, for a moment, Zargothrax hesitated.

These here, these were war horses, while he had only had the experience with regular farm animals: ones that stood still when you told them to stand still and did not trample a person lying on the ground. The ones here looked nowhere as calm, or friendly; more like animals ready to tear you to pieces should you as much as look at them the wrong way – incidentally, a perfect mirror image of the people riding them into battle.

On one hand, the Knights of Crail arriving on horses, when they had eagles at their disposal, appeared strange, not to say more. Why not be all pompous and a show-off, if one had the means for that? Riding into battle on giant bird was the epitome of pompous. On the other, Zargothrax figured, if he was in their place, he would not have wished for the inhabitants of Auchtermuchty to notice him incoming all pompous on the back of a giant bird, least of all on a stealth mission.

Unfortunately, these questions had to wait their turn to be asked, on another day.

In any other case, he would not even think of doing this. A wizard had no business stooping so low to become a common horse thief. However, now was no “other case”. The walk through the old, half-collapsed tunnel had been more exhausting than he had expected, and there had been a couple of knights loitering near the burial grounds who needed to be distracted as well, to give the sorcerer a chance to escape, and afterwards there had been the long, exhausting, not to mention daring twilight walk across the fields surrounding Auchtermuchty itself. His pool of strength and magical energy that had been kept up by anger and hurt at the beginning was once again depleted, and, if Zargothrax wanted to have even the smallest chance of escape before the day broke, he had to get his hands on a means of transport that had at least four legs and was capable of carrying him and Goblin. Coming across the ravine where the enemy (and it still felt weird thinking of them this way) forces had left their steeds before they approached the city on foot in the dark of the night had therefore been a welcome turn of the events.

And still, the sorcerer hesitated. These were intimidating beasts, for anyone who were not their riders, and, to top it all, Goblin would hiss and sputter every time Zargothrax made a step closer to one or another animal. Time was of essence now, the sun was rising, and soon both the city of Auchtermuchty as well as the surrounding lands would be bathed in its light, cutting every chance of escape down to a minimum.

It was more of a haunch than an actual feeling when the sorcerer noticed somebody staring at him and clutched the wooden staff he used to lean on while walking, as it if were a weapon rather than just a walking stick, he had found outside the burial grounds. Slowly, the young sorcerer turned, already expecting to see a bow or, at the very least, a spear trained on him.

Instead of a vigilant guard, there stood the most irritated, downright seething unicorn Zargothrax had ever seen. Not that he had seen many. In fact, this was the first time he saw one in real life, not just illustrations in a textbook, but even then he was certain that unicorns normally did not look as angry as this specimen did.

In any case, Zargothrax reckoned he would be angry, too, if it was _him_ whose legs had been bond, leaving him to hop along awkwardly. The animal’s snout had been tied shut with a richly decorated scarf, and, perched atop the unicorn’s horn, there sat a cork ball – obviously a security measure, for the proud beasts could easily both gauge somebody’s eye out and efficiently gut a person, just by using their horn.

The unicorn – most likely the mount of one of the Knights of Crail, for they had been all too eager to learn their secrets – continued to stare as the wizard turned and hobbled towards him.

It was an insane idea, but it was the best chance Zargothrax had at the moment. The magnificent beast was clearly not pleased about being here, just like it was not pleased about being tied up like the horses, and even less about the other restrains. Martha would be proud of him; the thought flashed the wizard’s mind as he closed in to the unicorn. The beast’s tail was swaying, nervously so, as the sorcerer removed his hood and the animal beheld the face under it, before bowing its head in what the wizard assumed was a sign of aggression. 

\- By the order… - surprised, Zargothrax found that his tongue did not want to obey; his speech was twisted, slurred, and he needed a couple of times to get the words right for the oath to work, - by the order and the circles I belong to, - he raised his right hand, his palm now sporting a sign in the centre of it that had a mild reddish glow to it, and the wizard felt how it drained the already meagre reserve of magic he had left, - I hereby swear I do not intend to cause you harm.

The unicorn still stared, yet the suspicion in its eyes began dissipating. Finally, the animal relaxed, going from hostile to defensive, before pressing his warm, silky muzzle into the sorcerer’s palm, and the wizard breathed with relief, for he reckoned that was a good sign.

\- Look, - Zargothrax was sure the unicorn understood what he was saying; anyone who thought these were just a different kind of horses that had somehow grown a horn and a blindingly white coat were fools to begin with, very often learning the truth when it was already too late, - you need my help, and we need yours. I will free you, if you promise to get us away from here.

The unicorn gazed about shortly, before staring the wizard down with a question in his eyes, and it took Zargothrax a moment to figure out what the animal meant.

\- Me and Goblin, - he pointed at the cat draped across his shoulders.

Goblin yawned, showing not the smallest sliver of fear in front of the unicorn who sniffed the cat before focusing on the sorcerer again.

The magnificent beast pondered for a moment, his ears twitching slightly as he took in the sounds around them, and Zargothrax thought he, too, was going to hear the approaching steps of whoever was left there to look after the knight’s steeds, before the animal rubbed his muzzle against the sorcerer’s cheek and attempted to nibble his hair, and, with that, the wizard considered their deal closed.

Admittedly, Zargothrax half expected the unicorn to gallop away as soon as the leather bonds were removed from his legs. Instead, the animal stood there, gazing down at his unexpected ally, his marvellous eyes glistening like two lilac gemstones in the morning light, and did not mind when the wizard had to grab hold around the equine’s neck when he stood and the world suddenly began swimming in front of his eyes.

\- I’m okay, - it was an attempt to calm himself down, rather than either of the animals; his ears rung, but there was no time; any injuries he could have suffered to cause this would just have to wait until they were safe.

The scarf came off next, and the unicorn moved his jaw and shook his head a couple of times, adjusting to his newfound freedom, before headbutting the sorcerer in stomach, sending Zargothrax stumbling backwards.

\- I’m sorry, but I don’t speak unicorn.

Another headbutt, the cork ball swaying by, dangerously close to the sorcerer’s face.

\- You want me to remove _that_?

Zargothrax gulped, nervous. Removing the straps and the scarf was one thing. When dealing with equines, one expected to get kicked or bitten. This, _this_ was something completely different. By removing the ball, he would give a very powerful creature – that, in addition, knew it was powerful – its greatest weapon back.

The unicorn headbutted him a third time and nickered, impatiently so, and the wizard took a deep breath before easing the cork ball off the (very, very sharp-looking) twisted horn.

\- That’s it, - Zargothrax retreated, - that’s my part of the deal. Your turn.

The horses watched them, visibly jealous of their very distant cousin who was now free to do as he pleased. The unicorn turned a couple of times, swaying his head, dancing on the spot, the early rays of sun that made their way inside the ravine reflecting off his horn and lending the snow-white mane a rosy tint, and the sorcerer could not help but to smile as he watched the creature’s antics.

Then, slowly, the magnificent animal knelt, head bowed so low his mane almost touched the ground – and waited.

\- Come, - Zargothrax picked up Goblin, trying not to make any sudden movements his head would make him feel sorry for, and hid the cat under his cloak, - time to go.

Five minutes later, a young boy, no older than fifteen – one of those left to look after the mounts of the soldiers and knights partaking in the carnage – emerged from the bushes, a sack of apples in his hand he offered the horses that flocked to him as fast as their bonds allowed. The boy walked among them, dispending the treats and petting the soft muzzles that reached out to him. Having arrived at the end of the line, he stood there for a while, as if wondering about something, before his eyes widened as the lad beheld the spot where the most magnificent being he had seen in his short life had been left the previous evening by none other than Ser Proletius of the Knights of Crail himself.

A minute afterwards, the horses were pushing each other out of the way, picking up the leftover treats spilled on the ground after the stable hand threw the sack and run, yelling, for his comrades who were gathered around a campfire on the other side of the ravine. By the time they were up and ready for the pursuit of what they thought at the moment to be just a unicorn on the loose, both the animal and the rider had already left the ravine and the former stronghold of wizards behind them and vanished into the grey autumn morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pissed, angery unicorn still really chill with people he likes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be part of chapter 4, but, as you can see, it wouldn't have fit together very well.
> 
> Y'all probably going to hate me at the end.

Zargothrax had no idea how much time had passed since they left the ravine and then also Auchtermuchty behind them. The foggy, cold autumn morning had trickled into just as foggy, cold autumn day that was slowly headed towards not a bit less foggy and cold autumn evening, and an unpleasant, chilly rain had been drizzling from the sky for what felt like hours to the exhausted wizard, and the cloak he had wrapped himself and Goblin in did little to protect his face, as freezing wind blew rain into it. The rainwater run down his face and, upon reaching his mouth, brought the disgusting taste of blood with it. At first, the sorcerer had feared and attempted to rub off whatever had caused it, only to give up as his hands brushing against the wound only disturbed it more than he was ready to bear right now. In addition, his mind remained a fuzzy cloud, and strength only seemed to dissipate during the few times they had stopped since the beginning of the journey. The unicorn was now walking, slowly headed into a direction only he knew, and, frankly, Zargothrax wondered whether the creature had decided to head straight for the valley of Achnasheen. These worries, however, were soon pressed out by an overwhelming tiredness and the looming feeling of dread that had been present ever since the back alleys of Auchtermuchty, and all he could do was let one hand into the unicorn’s mane and just hang onto it, half-asleep. He was tired, cold, and completely apathetic towards the rest of the world that did not encompass him, Goblin and their strange companion; too tired and apathetic to even care spending a thought on the events of the last night that lay somewhere deep at the back of his mind and refused to be summoned anyway.

The day was leaning towards the evening when they entered a forest that finally lent them a shelter from wind and rain, bringing joy to them all and to Goblin in particular who hated any precipitation by default, on the account of being a cat.

At first, Zargothrax thought his mind was merely playing tricks on him, when a white shape emerged among the trees and disappeared just as fast. But a mind trying to pull a prank on the person it was attached to would never be able to create visions with such frequency, or accuracy. As they proceeded, there were more shapes. First just one, then two, then four of them; shying away whenever the sorcerer turned his head to look at them, like they were playing. Like silent ghosts they leapt from place to place with such ease that it appeared as if they were flying between the trees as they chased each other. Goblin, who had already proven how useful he was in terms of sensing danger even despite his blindness, purred in the wizard’s arms contentedly, leading Zargothrax to hope that, perhaps, these were just a few benevolent spirits making fun of them, not the Fair Folk out on a hunt.

The unicorn stopped and tilted his head, staring at the evasive shapes for a moment before he let out a cry, somehow both apologetic and longing at the same time. The shapes emerged again, and this time they stood still for long enough for the sorcerer to be able to distinguish that they were, indeed, unicorns. Now, he had heard they would, on occasion, leave Achnasheen on their own, but he had never hoped to see _one_, let alone _four_ of them at the same time. Yet again, until this very morning, he had never thought he would actually get to _ride_ one.

They called, and the sorcerer’s mount answered, before turning his head to look at the rider.

\- Your friends? – Zargothrax let his hand into the unicorn’s mane and stroke the powerful neck for a moment, pondering on something. – Know what? I’d like to get off now, please.

He had to grasp the animal’s mane tightly as the unicorn knelt and his head protested the sudden movement. A moment later the wizard slid off, his feet sinking into the soft forest ground, leaving him swaying for a moment while he adjusted. Under the cloak, Goblin hissed, displeased about the sudden change of plans.

The unicorn stared at the sorcerer, and so did his friends or family, or whatever the four others were.

\- It’s okay. Go to your friends. Go!

Again, a soft muzzle rubbed against the sorcerer’s cheek, and the animal nibbled at his hair.

\- Yes, thank you, a haircut was just what I needed. Seriously. _Thank you_, - Zargothrax rested his head against the unicorn’s cheek, and, for a short moment, it felt as if the haze that had been in his mind ever since last night had been lifted.

Then the unicorn withdrew, poked Goblin with his snout as means of saying goodbye, and off he trotted, leaving the wizard and his cat alone in the forest.

***

To say that Zargothrax remembered anything between the time he found his teacher’s body in the study and the moment he stepped out of the house and into the back alleys of Auchtermuchty would mean to greatly overestimate the abilities of his memory at the moment, for there were precisely zero of them that referred to that particular moment in his life. He had therefore been left to study the contents of his bag, in an attempt to trace his trail of thought at that moment – and in hopes that it had been at least somewhat coherent.

Alright, so he had had the sense to pack some food, at least, so that was good. Everything he had with him the previous evening was also still there. Some ingredients for potions? Might as well have them. Necromancer tools, crafter and finely tuned to him specifically – he reckoned that, even in his state at that time, he had remembered to gather what possessions he had been the fondest of. Some other random things, such as a couple of quills, a few pieces of paper and a bottle of ink that were regulars in his bag, no wonder there.

And then… then there was a book… a small book, worn with time, its pages yellow and yet it was in a good condition.

A small book of legends and fairy tales.

_Why did he take this?_

_Why would he think it could even remotely be of use?_

Too painful, too clear, the fogged mind refused to remember. In addition to everything, he was drained of magic as of a few minutes ago after the unicorn had left – and Zargothrax suspected it had been the unicorn’s magic all along he had been pulling the strength for his insignificant spells from – and the mighty creature had permitted it. The young sorcerer knew he should have felt awed, grateful, but in reality he felt nothing but tired as the headache returned and the world began swimming in front of his eyes again, and the disgusting feeling of sickness clung to him once again, even despite there being almost nothing in his stomach to relieve it of.

With the book once again in the safety of his bag, Zargothrax’s hand found the knife still behind his belt. Fingers slid across the surface on the blade and then, accidentally, one of them hooked around it, pressing down, and the young sorcerer hurriedly withdrew his hand.

A closer inspection of the hand showed no damage whatsoever.

It was a dull knife.

It was a knife of absolutely no use whatsoever. He now remembered his teacher used it for two things and two things only: a paper cutter and paperweight. In his haste to leave the building before anyone noticed he was not actually as dead as they thought he was, the sorcerer had just grabbed the things closest to him. Something he did not have to search for.

And now it turned out that the thing was completely useless.

Even if he had pulled through with his plan and made an attempt on Prince Angus’ life back in the slums of Auchtermuchty… there would have been no other result than one more dead wizard getting added to the line of dead bodies already there.

The knife hit the ground a few meters away, landing in the moss. Immediately, the sorcerer felt remorse for his actions.

Dull or not, it was now one of the two things to remind him of the way his life had been. A dull knife and a book of legends. Life sure had a sense of humour, and apparently it loved ironic jokes.

Dull pain throbbed in his skull, as Zargothrax got to his feet and walked over to the patch of moss the knife had landed in.

Whatever was wrong with his head today, he needed to sort that out, too. The fields in front of the forest had been ploughed neatly, meaning there was a village in the near somewhere. Where there was a village, there was most likely a healer. Where there was a healer…

He leant down, his fingers locked around the knife, and the world went dark at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet dreams for now, Zarg_y_ :)


End file.
